


dipped into sugar

by archons



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Banter, Hair Brushing, Innuendo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-18 22:51:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3586980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archons/pseuds/archons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’d say that I can’t believe nobles eat flowers, but I can. They’ll eat anything so long as it’s pretty.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	dipped into sugar

Samson loved brushing Phoebus’s hair.

“I’ve never met anyone who didn’t,” the Inquisitor told him, full of light and laughter, dark eyes sparkling at the attention. “Except perhaps my nurse, but she had to brush tangles out of it twice a day, every day, and I was a growing, rambunctious little shit.”

Samson smiled faintly at the anecdote, pulled the brush through the hair on his scalp again, releasing before he passed his shoulders. There was an art to brushing someone’s hair if it was this long. He learned it while admiring Phoebus at his dressing table. 

He was so taken by watching the brown and silvery strands that he almost missed the small bit of purple. “Did she ever find anything in it?”

“Pardon?”

Phoebus twisted around right as Samson removed a petal from his hair and held it between his index and middle finger. His face creased in a grin at the sight of it, that afternoon rushing back as a happy memory. "Ah, that… dog violets.” He reached up and took the petal from Samson, setting the delicate little thing in his palm. “Dalish and Skinner were out in the mountains for a picnic. They brought armfuls of them back.”

Samson leaned closer to him. “But how did they get in your hair? Did you roll in ‘em like a dog?”

“Sera made crowns out of some of them while we ate the rest.”

At the sight of Samson’s wrinkled nose, Phoebus laughed. “You dip them into sugar first,” he said. “It’s a Fereldan thing.” Samson didn’t seem to be buying his story, with his head cocked to the side and his brow furrowed. “They’re delicious! You should try it, if you think me a liar.”

Without a word, Samson reached out and snatched the petal up. Before Phoebus could stop him, he popped it into his mouth and began to chew. 

His expression slowly shifted from confused to disgusted to disappointed in the span of a minute. Smacking his lips together, he reached for the bottle of wine sitting between Phoebus’s crossed legs and took a long, cleansing chug of it.

Even with his mouth pressed into a line, Phoebus could barely stifle his amusement. His lips twitched, and he curled his hands into loose fists, resting them on Samson’s knees, now turned towards him completely. Once he was satisfied with his ability to keep a straight face, he gave a cough. 

“Dipped,” he said. “Into,” he said. “Sugar,” he said.

“That was fucking foul.”

Phoebus choked on a laugh before flopping back down onto his ass and tucking himself between samson’s legs. “They’re delicious covered in sugar,” he said, sneaking one look at him over his shoulder before the man forced his head around with a firm hand.

“Everything’s better covered in sugar,” Samson muttered before swapping the bottle for the brush. “Doesn’t mean they shouldn’t taste good plain, too.”

“You know, that’s a good point.”

“I could stick my cock into a bag of sugar, but it’d still taste like cock,” he continued, brushing just as carefully through Phoebus’s long hair as before. “So your flowers must still taste like shit, just sweet.”

Phoebus chuckled, pressing back closer to him. “How do you know that? have you tried?”

Sneaking another glance back at him, he watched Samson shake his head, brows stitched together in concentration. “Never had enough money to waste a bag of sugar,” he said as a slow smile crept across his face, leaving a thin dimple in his stubbled cheek.

It took Phoebus a moment, but eventually, his back straightened and he whispered, “Are you suggesting that I do?”

“You do, don’t you?”

Phoebus made a disgusted noise in his throat. “I like your cock how it is. I don’t want to lick sugar off of it for an hour.” He paused, lips curling downwards at the edges. He looked like a child confronted with the idea of eating vegetables, Maker bless him. “Could you imagine how sticky it would be?”

“Aw, don’t be like that,” Samson said, arms sliding around Phoebus’s neck, brush still in hand. “You’ve sucked me for longer without half as much incentive.”

“Shut up.”

Samson pressed the raised bridge of his nose to Phoebus’s cheek and laughed under his breath. He could smell the lingering almond oil on his skin from the bath they shared, and the warmth forced his eyes closed. “Won’t stop it from being true.”

The fond tone in his voice only served to turn the Inquisitor into jelly.

“You’re horrible,” Phoebus murmured, tilting closer to Samson, one hand curling around one wrist.

“And you love sucking—”

“Samson.”

Samson laughed again, and Phoebus felt a tug in his chest. Those bouts of laughter only served to prove how well he was doing, how happy he was, and their existence—however short—was beautiful.

“The thought still stands, y’know,” Samson told him as he scooted back on the low seat, pulling Phoebus back between his legs and starting to brush again. “I’d say that I can’t believe nobles eat flowers, but I can. They’ll eat anything so long as it’s pretty.”

Phoebus smiled to himself, enjoying the gentle tug of the brush through his hair. After a long moment of quiet, he opened his eyes again and stared across the room at the mirror that sat above his dressing table. He watched as Samson focused on his scalp, on pulling the brush through the thick of his hair, pressing it all away from his face and leaving the strands silky.

“I guess that explains a few things about us,” he said, voice quiet. his smile relaxed into a smirk. “Nobles will eat anything, you know, so long as it’s pretty.”

“I’m not pretty,” Samson said without looking up from his work.

Phoebus sighed. “Then I guess your logic is faulty.”

Samson’s own smile was small, and it began only at one side of his mouth. But it was a smile that kindled a familiar warmth deep in Phoebus’s chest. So instead of arguing, he reached up and found Samson’s free hand with his own. 

They sat there until Samson was finished and Phoebus’s ass ached from the hard floor, still smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> My favorite part of writing these two is the ease with which I find myself referencing rimming in really fluffy, sweet situations.


End file.
